The World According to Romano
by Spazzkitty
Summary: Lovino rants in journal form about his unqualified psychiatrist that he doesn't need to see, the job he hates, and his annoying brother's friend who he either wants to run over with a truck or kiss-He's not entirely sure. Happy birthday, EJR-Blue-Rose!


_YO! =D THIS IS THE FISH TAKIN OVER FOR THE KAT. or something. SO YES. It is I, the infamous sister, writing about the actual "famous" sister's fic. Um...yay, not so short one-shots about angsty Romano! WAHOO! .............okgivingbackbeforeshekillsme (She may be younger but she's taller)_

...Oh my GOD. What was THAT? See, this is why I shouldn't actually LISTEN to my sister when she says things like 'Hey, let me write the author's note for this fic' when she hasn't even READ it (yet). And for those of you wondering, her nickname is 'Fishie', which is why the whole fish-taking-over-for-the-(Cat starts with a 'C')kat thing came in. ...Yeah. _I can see Russia from mah house! _(That was her again) Anyway, this is a birthday fic for the probably lovely and most definitely talented EJR-Blue-Rose. I know it's kinda early, but I wanted to give her a fic with a Romano that made her laugh as much as her Romano makes me laugh. You're an incredible author, EJR, and I hope you have (as America would say) a freakin awesome birthday! I don't own Hetalia, or Long Beach Island, or Showplace which is a real ice cream place. Or Hungary (HA, I wish). Blah. This is an absurdly long Author's Note. Blame my sister.

***

The World According to Romano

I'm not writing a salutation here. If I write one of them, it will be like I'm writing a diary. And, as I'm a teenaged boy, I prefer to stray away from diaries, rainbows, unicorns, sparkles, and the like. I leave that department entirely up to my brother. But I digress.

My psychiatrist was the one who made me write this. He claims I need a 'creative outlet' for my anger. I think he's the one who needs a damn psychiatrist. Take the rubber band I have around my wrist. I always thought that was for smoking, but apparently I'm supposed to thwack my wrist every time I swear. I've only been gone from his office for a half hour, and the last d-word pushed me just over 50 thwacks. I'm willing to bet the guy is a sadist and just wants me to come back with a violently red wrist, which is ironically enraging me more than anything else has this past week. See? He's a total quack.

Anyway, he says to write what you know. So, to humor him, as I don't _need_ a psychiatrist, I'll give it a shot. Do you ever get the feeling that nobody in your life, not even your own brother, likes you? Welcome to my world. Not that Feliciano really says anything to the effect. His vocabulary is pretty limited anyway, judging by the number of times he says 'pasta' a day. I can tell what he's thinking though, in the way he never really meets my eyes, the way his smile is always a little forced around me. He probably just feels bad for me, for ever-cranky, clumsy, horrible-at-drawing Lovino. I don't need his sympathy or pity. Bastard (Fifty-two thwacks).

I don't know what else to write here really, as I've never done one of these things before (and never want to again). My coworker Hungary who's reading this over my shoulder (by the way, leave) says people usually write about their life in journals. I live with my brother Feliciano on Long Beach Island, New Jersey. We live in an old house built in the 19th century, with three small floors and narrow, rickety staircases connecting them. We're only three houses from the beach, which is where you can find Feliciano every morning at two A.M., painting the ocean. Feliciano and I are twins, almost identical, with brown eyes, brown hair, and one stupid brunette piece that curls like crazy. My psychiatrist pulled it once, something I'm sure he'll never do again. On the plus side, the Surflight Theater needed sopranos, and he was certainly singing it for more than a week. I may be small, but I can kick pretty damn hard (Fifty-three).

I work right next to the Surflight Theater, at an ice cream parlor called Showplace. I hate my job. It combines a bunch of things I hate: Show tunes, laughter, ice cream, singing, and tourists. Basically, we sell sundaes named after Broadway musicals. The customers need one person at a table to sing or say something crazy for their ice cream, and later the waiters and waitresses do a performance of various Broadway songs. As I would rather die than sing anything for anyone, I work behind the counter in the singing-free zone making the ice cream. Actually, I'm on my shift right now as I'm writing this. My manager is glaring at me, but I really don't care. We both know I make the best Phantom of the Opera sundae anyone's ever eaten, and if he could afford to fire me, he would have at least two summers ago.

I can hear Hungary welcoming another group to their table with her classic 'Welcome to Showplace' spiel, but there's a laugh barely hiding behind it, so I'm going to risk a glance upward to see if it's her boyfriend Austria again. He looks uptight but is secretly a chocoholic, so I know to whip up a Phantom of the Opera (Chocolate ice cream, fudge, marshmallow topping, and nuts) if he's here. I'll just take a quick look.

Oh god. It's Feliciano.

He's sitting down with his friends at a table uncomfortably close to where I'm writing this. He's just noticed me and a look of surprise crossed his face before he waved with that idiotic grin plastered on. Please, dear God, if you exist, kill me now.

See, I didn't _tell_ Feliciano where I worked when I first got my job here. I figured that, by not telling him, he might never find out and try to come visit me on the job. Apparently, this plan isn't working as fantastically as I'd hoped.

It would have been bad enough if it was just him, but he brought along his three friends. First we have Kiku. The kid is as expressionless as a brick. I guess we get along all right, but he's not the easiest person to talk to, and his dark eyes and monotone voice can be a little unsettling. Then we have Ludwig. God, I hate him. He's got a stick shoved way up his ass (Fifty-four), and he's obsessed with rules and regulations. I can't stand being around him for more than five minutes, and once tried to strangle him with his own necktie. Long story, and unfortunately unsuccessful. And, finally, there's Spain. I hate him even more than Germany. He's always so _happy_, even when there isn't anything to be happy about. He always flirts with me and calls me 'Lovi', like he's got some weird delusion that I _like_ it when he hits on me nonstop. And his eyes… his eyes are like purest cuts of emerald, glinting with humor or mischief or sadness. I absolutely love them. And I kinda somewhat maybe seem to love him, too.

…Damn him. Fifty-five.

Feliciano just got their attention and is blathering something, probably giving me away. All four of them just turned to look at me. Kiku looks stoic as always, Ludwig slightly disapproving (to my immense pride), Feliciano is looking slightly away and avoiding my gaze yet again, and Antonio is staring intently at me. When he catches my eye, he beams and winks at me, mouthing a 'Hi, Lovi'. I growl at him and he blows me a kiss. I feel my entire face turning the color of a tomato. Note to self: Antonio is the next one getting a kick to the family jewels.

Hungary is coming over to give me their orders right now. There's a massive smirk on her face. I want more than anything to wipe it off, but I don't hit girls. It's a chivalry thing. She somehow seems to know that I like Antonio- she told me confidently that I liked him before I even knew I did. She claims it's just intuition, but I have a feeling her second job at a matchmaking service may help more than she wants to say. Anyway, she just walked past me and said, "One Phantom for Kiku, Two Wizards of Oz for your brother and Antonio, and an Annie for Ludwig." So I'll have to take a quick break to whip those up.

--

I just finished making the sundaes, and Hungary came to pick them up. I pulled a five out of my pocket and held it out to her. "It's yours if you make Antonio the one who has to sing."

She glared at me for a bit, narrowing her eyes. "You know the selection is random. I refuse to participate in this stupid plan to embarrass poor, innocent Antonio." I pulled back my five with an eye roll and slipped her a ten instead. She pocketed it and sighed. "Okay, you win." I grinned triumphantly. Hungary was a little short on cash at the moment, something I've been exploiting recently. Usually, I reserve my tens for embarrassing Ludwig, but Spain seemed to be asking for it today. Hungary skipped up and rang the cowbell near the counter, signaling that she was about to speak. The people in the room stopped chatting and looked at her expectantly. She smiled brightly and sauntered over to the table right near the counter. I couldn't help smirking.

"Okay, I delivered a Wizard of Oz sundae to this guy right here! Would you please stand up, sir? Give him some encouragement, everyone!" Spain slid casually out of the chair and to his feet, smiling amiably, while the other patrons applauded and cheered for him. When he caught my poisonous glare, his grin slipped a little bit. I felt very satisfied. "As you know, there are rainbow sprinkles on your sundae. So, I'm going to need you to sing 'Ice Creeeeam, under the rainbow!' for me. Are you ready?" she asked with her beaming grin. He nodded confidently and the people in the parlor counted down until his start time.

"3! 2! 1!"

My world literally froze, stopping on the axis it had somehow managed to keep spinning on for eighteen years. Spain's voice tumbled out of his throat, rich and deep and soulful. I felt my face flushing bright red, but there was nothing I could do about it. His singing was incredible, and I wanted nothing more than to listen to it for the rest of my life, no matter how long that might be. He stopped singing after the three or so bars of music and there was a stunned silence before the room erupted in applause. I sat there in a trance for a few seconds, and as this is a journal nobody else will read but me, I confess I was staring at him. My face was blushing scarlet, my eyes were bright and sparkling, and my mouth was apparently gaping slightly (I know this as Hungary was delighted to tell me about it five minutes later). Spain saw me and grinned hugely, his emerald eyes dancing. The slight smugness there snapped me back to reality, and I managed to save face by flipping him off. He just laughed.

So here we are now. The show is halfway done and Hungary did a fantastic solo from Anastasia that I didn't even hear because I was so preoccupied writing this. Spain is just sitting there, not even paying attention to her, staring at me. I've glared, growled, and mimed slitting his throat, and all he does it smile at me with that fucking adorable (Fifty-six) expression. This is all his fault. He just HAD to have an incredible voice. He HAD to come to my stupid work I hate and bring my brother. He HAD to make me waste my ten bucks trying to embarrass him, only to have it blow up in my face, the way it always seems to.

Damn him. Fifty-friggin-seven.


End file.
